My White Trash Life

December 17, 2006

My White Trash Life

I guess it’s true what they say:  It’s easy to take the girl out of Cooterville, but it’s not so easy to take Cooterville out of the girl.

As you know, The Beast was in the shop last week for butt replacement surgery.

Geesh — lost my train of thought.  Just had to take a glue stick away from Tank Boy who was applying it to his mouth as if it were lipstick.  We have to get another boy around here, and soon.

So, anyway, rump replacement surgery — a pretty standard, albeit cosmetic, procedure after a mini van thuds into your backside.  It went well, didn’t take too long, and we finally got a rental car from Capt. Kirk and a few other folks from the Starship.  Heh, heh, we never actually used it except for Husband to drive back to the dealership to pick up The Beast.  But at least we had it if we’d needed it.

The dealership called me at about the time Husband leaves work to let me know we could come pick up my great vehicular protector any time.  It was a pretty busy day, so Husband had to rush home, leave his car and take the rental to the dealership, exchange it for our Suburban, then hurry home, choke down some supper and load the three oldest into The Beast to head out for martial arts classes.  Yes, I suppose I could have loaded up all the kids into the rental and picked up our truck myself, but the insurance check that had to be signed over to the dealership was made out to Husband and I just didn’t want to forge a check when an insurance company is involved.  I’m retentive, whatever.

So they squeak out of here barely in time to make it to the martial arts studio on time.  Since Husband teaches the little kid class while the older girls are taking their class, they really do have to be there on time.

O.K., funny aside story here:

One time, before husband started teaching the little kid class, I was sitting watching the older girls in their class with some other mothers.  One of them pulled out her checkbook to pay that month’s tuition.  Afraid one of us would see her check book and wonder if she was a bit dotty, she turned it for us all to see and said, “Can you believe my husband had this put on our checks?”

“Seriously,” I said, “That’s nothing.  My husband had it tattooed on his arm.”  I was not just trying to bring comfort to an embarrassed woman.  He honestly did.  Not the exact pose you see here, but close enough.  Ah, youthful indiscretions.  Even funnier — there was no alcohol involved in that decision.

All right, so tattooed Husband races off with the girls to the martial arts class and about 20 minutes later my cell phone rings.  I see he is calling from his cell phone and I immediately start thinking they have been in an accident or something, but no, it’s not that.

“Hey E.,” he says.  “Do you know what I just found on the floor of the Suburban?  It must have been there the whole time The Beast was in to be fixed.”

And then I remember it.  I had changed Tank Boy in the truck and put the diaper on the front passenger side floor to be thrown away when we got home.  Only I forgot about it (it was just wet, after all).

I can just imagine the comments in the shop:

“Awww, sheesh.  These people left a big piece of trash in here on the floor.”

“What kind of trash?”

“I don’t know.  Just a big piece of white trash.”

“Hey, that’s not just any white trash.  That’s a used diaper!  Gross!  One of them MUST originally be from Cooterville.”

Uh, yeah.  That would be me.

And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says yeeeee-haw!

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